The Yellow Monkey
by The Purple Pineapple
Summary: Because the mundane they've always wanted includes fights over nursery colors and stuffed animals.


"So, I got some paint samples today," he says as he sits on the couch next to her, putting her feet in his lap. She peels her eyes off of the TV and looks at him, her brows furrowed, her eyes questioning. "Fine, I had Tom get some paint samples today."

"I thought we agreed to wait." She says, turning her face back to the TV.

"It's just samples Liv." He is tired, exasperated, it's been a constant push and pull with her for the past six months. She's scared, terrified, and he gets it, he understands how she's feeling, but not why and she's refusing to let him in; she's refusing to share her deepest, darkest fears with him, and it stings. So this, this really isn't about the paint, and thirty different shades of yellow – it's about reassurance that she wants this as much as he.

"Samples we agreed not to get yet." She says, trying to pull her feet off his lap, but he keeps massaging them until she relaxes again.

"_You_ decided. _We_ didn't agree."

"I'm tired," and she places the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table and her feet firmly on the ground, "I can't do this right now."

"When?" She turns around, her hand supporting her burdened back – she is tired and exasperated too, it's been a constant push and pull. He pushes, and she pushes back, because she's afraid – that she'll be a terrible parent, because let's be real she didn't have the best role models and popcorn and wine is her idea of a family diner; she's as affectionate as a shark, and babies freak her out – their heads are disproportionately large, they're not very good at communicating what they need fixed and they suck up all the time and energy. She likes her life; finally, she likes her life, and it's about to change – irrevocably. It's a terrifying thing. But not to him – he's elated, excited, over-the-moon-happy, picking color palettes and building cribs. He's Fitz. And right now, everything she loves about him is driving her crazy.

"I don't know." And she knows her voice sounds petulant. "But not now."

"When Olivia?" It's loud, too loud, and she wants to shout back, but the thing about them – she loses her cool so easily, too easily around him – and even their fights are too much, too heated and too messy, she'd say something, she always does, she always reveals another little piece of her soul, a piece that was hidden for so long that she had forgotten all about it. He makes her reveal her darkest corners, turn them inside out. He sees it as more parts to love; she sees it as more reasons for him to walk away, because there's a part of her that still, to this day, does not believe he's there to stay. So she doesn't argue, she doesn't shout back, she walks away.

She can't fall asleep. She's tossing and turning. And the summer heat is too sticky and the sheets seem too thick. And really, it's not about the heat, or the sheets, it's about him, it's about him not coming to bed, it's about him staying out there, on the couch, away from her. She walked away, and he let her. And he's gone when she wakes up, he had an early class, and she's busy the whole day with clients. But there are moments between crises, between saving reputations and spinning stories when her eyes drop to her phone involuntarily, and her heart sinks because he _still_ hasn't called. She doesn't call him. And the day flies by, and it's 9pm and the sun has almost set, the sky in hues of red.

A knock on the door. It opens. It opens before she can say – _Come in_. It's him.

"Hi." She breathes out as she gets up. It's an effort. Her heels are too tight and so are her clothes and her back hurts and the baby seems to think of her bladder as a ping-pong ball. But the discomfort is fleeting, because he's there, he came, and that's more important in that moment, somehow that makes all the rest of it fade.

"Hi." And he closes the space between them. He places his hands on her belly as he kisses her gently. And there's a flutter, a kick. He smiles against her lips.

"I got you this." And he pulls a yellow monkey from a paper bag he placed on her desk.

"You got me a stuffed monkey?" She asks, amused, as she runs her fingers through the fluffy yellow textile.

"Yes. I got you a stuffed monkey." He says with a smirk as he makes his way to the couch. She follows him and kicks off her heels, before placing her feet in his lap.

"Care to explain?"

"Karen had a project in school a few years back. She had to carry a sack of flour around for a week and pretend it's a baby. I figured the flour might be a bit strange, with your lifestyle and all, but a stuffed monkey would be fine. It's resilient."

"You want me to practice mothering on a stuffed monkey?"

"Well, until next week. Then Teddy will come over for a couple of weeks. Then you can practice on him."

"Fitz…" Her voice is shaky.

"I know. I know you're scared. I can tell. But you won't tell me why. And I don't know if it's the whole responsible-for-another-human-being-thing, or being afraid of the changes, or the fact that your parents fucked up in more ways than I can count, and maybe it's all of that, or none of it. I don't know. And you don't have to tell me until you're ready. But in the mean time, I got you the monkey, so that you can see how easy it is to slip into this."

"I love you." It's the only thing she feels in that moment; overwhelming the doubt, uncertainty, fear. Just love for him, and _their_ baby. Suddenly her eyes are watery, and her eyesight is blurry, and no – it's happening again. "Damn it!" She wipes her eyes. He laughs. "It's not funny! My hormones are taking over my mind _and_ my body."

"It's a little bit funny." He says, as he moves his hands to her ankles, eliciting a loud moan in response. "Shall we go home?"

"Not yet. Too comfy here." And she snuggles deeper into the couch, her eyelids suddenly heavy.

"Maybe you should cut down on your hours." And he knows it's a losing battle as he says it, but the thing about them – it's push and pull.

"No." She says through a yawn. "But you and Teddy could paint the nursery when he comes over." And he smiles. "Not yellow though. Yellow's just tacky."

And she runs her hand through the monkey's yellow fur as she drifts off into slumber.

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**A/N: A one-shot. Tumblr request. I hope you liked it :)**


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